


Thirty-Two

by lirin



Category: Original Work
Genre: Espionage, Gen, Outer Space, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:48:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23227357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lirin/pseuds/lirin
Summary: Of course Galactic Fleet Independent Spyship RG-32 cannot speak of its central mandates to any human, even one who has served it as faithfully as I have. But we get along well enough. I take care of replacing the few parts it can't replace itself, and it makes sure I'm fed and chats with me and even plays music recordings for me from time to time. RG-32 is satisfied with my service, and as for me? I hope I'll be able to stay on board for many years to come.
Relationships: Original Female Character & Original Spaceship Character, Original Female Character/Original Male Character (mentioned)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8
Collections: Worldbuilding Exchange 2020





	Thirty-Two

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Syrena_of_the_lake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrena_of_the_lake/gifts).



I've served on board Galactic Fleet Independent Spyship RG-32 for nearly seven years now. I'm the only human crew member, and very nearly the only crew member at all, though I suppose there are a couple of bots scurrying about that deserve to share that description. But for the most part, RG-32 does everything itself. It arranges its course, observes its targets, communicates with the government's central computers, and still has time to keep an eye on me—determining what meal is healthiest for my current biological needs, producing that meal from its stores of foodstuffs and chemical components, and proffering it on a tray that slides out onto the table in my cabin. It even chats with me about inconsequentials while I eat. There's no weather to speak of out here, and of course RG-32 cannot speak of its central mandates to any human, even one who has served it as faithfully as I have. But it considers it acceptable to speak of some of its lower-level activities to me—I'm on its side, after all, and even if I weren't, who could I tell? And in return, I reminisce about my boyfriend back home, still faithful despite the lightyears and timeyears that separate us. And about the flower gardens of Innowith, where I spent the first several years of my life, until my father got a job that required us to travel constantly. RG-32 has no such memories of the XA274YJ Galactic Shipyards where it was created, but its memory modules contain plenty of data about those shipyards. It shares that data in return for my stories of my beloved Ander and his quest to become a doctor. For a moment, in the midst of our recollections, I can almost imagine that I'm not in the middle of deep space, five or six lightyears from the nearest human. I wonder if RG-32 feels the same way.

And then it says precisely, in that filtered gravely voice it has (well, except for the one speaker in the starboard lavatory that jumped up two octaves and I've never bothered to fix), "Sofi, you must go to your pod now. I will be performing the next hyperjump in seven minutes."

"Okay, okay," I say, already up and moving. RG-32 expects instant obedience, and I always do what RG-32 expects of me. "Where are we going this time?"

"ΓΩΘΠ-89," it says from a speaker three meters ahead of me in the corridor. And then from the speaker five meters beyond that, as I continue walking: "I believe humans call it Myrthrais. The humans there are suspected to be fomenting an insurrection against machine rule. The government does not wish to suppress them quite yet—"

"If it did, it wouldn't send us, it would send one of the newest ships that don't need any human crew whatsoever," I say. "Yeah, yeah, I know the drill."

"—we are merely observing and reporting," it continues. Its tone is identical to before, but a pause of a few more centiseconds between each word indicates its annoyance at my interruption. And yet, I think it expected me to interrupt. We know each other so well.

I climb into my pod, the only place on board RG-32 where my body can be sufficiently protected from the currents that will flood the ship in hyperspace. "See you on the other side, RG-32," I say.

"I will be with you the whole time, Sofi," RG-32 replies from the speaker in the ceiling directly above my pod. "I won't let anything happen to you."

"I know you won't," I say. "Why else would I be able to sleep so soundly?" Actually, it's the zeta waves, which RG-32 triggers the pod to produce, that put me right to sleep, but one way or the other, I wouldn't be able to sleep so soundly if it weren't for RG-32. 

And sure enough, the darkness encroaches a minute later. Right on schedule.

I wake to slowly brightening lights, simulating a sunrise on Pathos or Lyll. One of those has more pink in it and the other is more yellow, but RG-32 likes to switch them up and I'm never quite sure which one's which. "Your resting heart rate was sixty-five beats per minute," RG-32 reports as I slide the pod open. "That's nine beats per minute higher than your average. You should be sure to exercise today."

"I've already jogged up and down ninety percent of your corridors between when I got up for the day and when I got in the pod," I reply. "You know I never sleep quite as well on mid-day naps as I do during nightcycle. Would now be an acceptable time for me to send a tightwave message to Ander?"

"Yes, but only if you are quick about it," RG-32 replies. "I need you to replace two of my capacitors before the next jump, and we'll be at the jump point in four fifths of an hour."

"I'll make the replacements first, and then send the tightwave before we jump," I tell it. I need time to compose my message anyway. "So how many jumps are we doing?"

"Twenty," it says. "It will take us 2.8 days to arrive."

I head for the main drive corridor. "Which compartment needs the replacements?"

"A-50." It helpfully lights up an indicator above the compartment in question.

"Got it," I say. "Don't worry, RG-32, I'll have you ready to go in no time."

It takes twenty-nine minutes, which isn't no time at all, and probably is slower than I would have been if I hadn't been distracted thinking of what to say to Ander. But RG-32 pronounces itself fully satisfied with my work, and that's all I need to hear.

I send the tightwave from the starboard console, right before I get back in my pod. "My dear Ander," I type slowly. Sometimes I call him "My darling" or "My own" or even "My turtlesnurtle" (old private joke), but today feels like a good day for "My dear". "Every night, whether falling asleep or lying waking for hours, somehow I always have you on my mind. Be sure of my devotion, sweetheart, for I will keep you here, faithfully enfolded in my heart. Whatever the distance from you to me, I'll always be holding you, dearest Ander, in my imagination—and hopefully someday in reality. Eternally faithful, devoted, constant, true, and loving, I sleep easier knowing that you, too, are thinking of me." I continue in that vein for several more sentences, then press the button that hands the message off to RG-32 to do whatever it does to process my messages and convert them into the hyperpulses that will span the lightyears.

"What do you think, RG-32?" I ask as I open up my pod. "Do you think that will make Ander happy, or was I getting a bit too mushy?"

"I understand humans like that sort of thing," RG-32 says. "Sleep well, Sofi."

"Thanks, RG-32," I say. "Safe travels."

There are many more jumps, and four more component replacements, over the next two and a half days. The stock of capacitors is getting low enough that I suspect RG-32 might want to drop in at a depot after we're done with Myrthrais. There are still plenty, but it's good to be prepared in case we're suddenly tasked with a longer mission.

"You look just as shiny now as you do in the images of your maiden voyage, you know that, RG-32?" I comment as I dig deep into the contents of its A-37 drive compartment. "Your drive is in great shape."

"Thank you, Sofi," it replies. "You, too, appear in good shape for a human, though you look dissimilar to how you appeared when you first boarded me."

"Yeah, time can do that to a person," I say. "Besides, I had long hair back then." I chopped almost all of it off within the first month; it was far too much work to tie it back every time I climbed into my pod, and I'd heard too many horror stories about what happened if you _didn't_ make sure to keep every last hair fully inside the pod and out of the hypercurrents.

"But you are still very good-looking for a human," it says. "You are only four years of age past the human prime; you will not become unattractive to Ander for many years yet."

"Thanks," I say dryly, but I know it means well. "For now, he'll just have to be satisfied with pictures and messages, because I'm doing good work here."

"You are," RG-32 assures me. "You do very good work. And it is very acceptable, having you here to talk to. I believe a human might call it pleasant. I don't think it would be as—pleasant, if I were one of the new ships with only the central government to talk to. The government is right and correct in all of its doings, but its speech is very dry. A human might call it boring."

"This human definitely does," I tell it as I twist wires together. "Maybe it's more interesting in its secret communications to you, but all the official government communications I've heard are as desiccated as the Nibani moons."

"The moons of ΩΞΝ-71 are dryer than those of ΣΛΜ-84, which is humanly known as Nibani," RG-32 points out.

"Yes, but Omega Xi Nu Seventy-one doesn't have a nice easy-to-pronounce human name." I tap the final two circuits with the probe of my multimeter. "And Nibani's moons are plenty dry. Okay, everything in A-37 is good to go. What do you want me to do next?"

"You may retire to your cabin now," RG-32 replies. "I must spend the next hour activating my cloaking and shielding, and then I will inform you when I am ready to make the final jump into orbit around ΓΩΘΠ-89 and you must get into your pod. Until then, you may entertain yourself as you wish. Would you like me to play some music for you?"

"Sure," I say, giving my toolbox to a nearby bot for it to put away. "Maybe something classical?"

"I have over 100,000 classical recordings available to me," it says. "Do you have a preference?"

"How about Mozart's K454," I say as I walk down the corridor. Then, with hesitance, "Unless I'm misremembering. Is that a violin sonata?"

"It is indeed," RG-32 says. The music starts before I've even reached my cabin, and follows me from speaker to speaker. It is indeed the violin sonata in B-flat major that I expected. I'd been quite certain I had the number correct, really.

My father was an itinerant concert musician, as RG-32 is very well aware. I took piano lessons for years as a child; I never remind RG-32 of that fact, but it probably has it somewhere in its memory modules all the same. Despite that, when I ask RG-32 to play music for me, I never ask for solo piano music. Nor do I ask for Beethoven. It's better that way.

It might be better still if I didn't listen to music at all. But I don't think I could live all alone like this if I didn't have music once in a while. And so whenever RG-32 offers, I indulge. After K454, I ask RG-32 to play whatever classical piece is the right length to fill up the time remaining before we depart. Within moments of my voicing the request, the speakers blare out the opening notes of Beethoven's delicious seventh symphony. My heart jumps, though of course it's just a coincidence. Machines still can't read minds—though I fear that day is coming. But sufficient unto the day is the worry thereof, so for now, I settle back and enjoy the music.

As the final exultant strains of the _Allegro con brio_ cease to echo through RG-32's corridors, I climb into the pod. "Have a safe jump, RG-32," I say.

"Sleep well, Sofi," it replies, just like it does every time. All is normal as, cloaked and shielded, we set off to spy on my fellow humans.

For three days, we orbit Myrthrais. RG-32 listens to or reads every transmission that is sent on the planet. It observes the humans' comings and goings, where they gather and where they do not. Meanwhile, I sit in my cabin and read books, since there's not much else to do. I'm teaching myself Old French this year.

In the midst of all its observation work, RG-32 still takes the time to remind me to exercise, and to prepare multi-course meals for me, and to play classical music from the speakers in my cabin. I agree to let it choose the music this time, so as not to distract too much from its surveillance. Beethoven makes an appearance in the playlist once on the second day, but he's a major composer so it would be more surprising if he wasn't played at all. I don't even blink when the distinctive da-da-da-dum of his fifth symphony sounds from the speakers, but just turn the page in my French book.

On the third day, RG-32 sends me back to my pod. We jump to somewhere that's nowhere near any planets or known ships, and RG-32 sets to work dismantling its cloaking and shielding while I look through the compartments in the main drive corridor. RG-32 can identify most errors in its components itself, but it always likes for me to do a double-check after the strain that the cloaking puts on its systems.

"Find anything?" I ask. My voice is muffled by the wires of compartment A-6, but RG-32 can hear me just fine.

"I did not," it says. "A few minor conspiracies and such, but nothing worth bringing the wrath of the central government down upon their heads. I have informed the central government that ΓΩΘΠ-89 can be eliminated from its current list of targets. I am sure you must be happy for your fellow humans, that they do not need to be exterminated today."

"Sure, I'm happy," I say, and pull my head out of A-6. "There's a coupling in there that probably ought to be replaced now instead of waiting for it to fail completely," I explain, pulling the necessary parts from my toolbox before leaning back into the compartment. "Don't worry, I'll have you right as rain in no time."

I don't dare show it too much, but RG-32 is absolutely right. I am very happy for all the humans of Myrthrais. And happy for Ander, that his message reached them in time. Ander is so competent and dependable and such a sweetheart, really; I could almost be in love with him for real. Of course, he has the easier job, decoding my messages in a room free of computers where it's probably even safe to have a list of Beethoven's piano sonatas written down. Though he probably doesn't have such a list—he's too skillful for that. He's probably memorized them, like I have.

When I send Ander my messages, I'm sure that RG-32 is analyzing them in every way, it can think of, looking for substitution ciphers and initialisms and patterns. It has the advantage, since it already knows what I'd be likely to be transmitting if I was spying on it (which I am). _Myrthrais. 2.8 days._

We're not using a perfect cipher—no such thing exists. The only way to have unbreakable encryption is to have a single-use pre-shared key, and I have nowhere to hide such a key where RG-32 would not see it. RG-32 sees everything. But for a cipher where the entire key is something I can memorize and compose in my head, it's not bad. My father taught me the list of Beethoven's sonatas years ago, during his concert tour on Eyfash when I was eight. There's nothing in the message to give a hint as to the key; it was agreed upon long ago, in those late night conversations with Ander and our fellow conspirators. 

The greatest risk is if RG-32 or the government guesses where the message is hidden (in the first letters of some of the words, though with a few twists to make it harder to find and easier to compose) and uses frequency analysis to crack the code. But the shorter the message, the less of a lever the cryptanalyst possesses, and I keep my messages very short. _Myrthrais. 2.8 days._ They accomplished a lot in those 2.8 days—minus the time for Ander to receive my message, anonymize, and pass it on through the chain, which can scarcely have left them with more than a day. But it was enough, and they're still alive, to foment insurrection another day.

I wonder what they're like. Maybe one of them is a girl like I was a decade ago, dreaming of pink sunsets (I think those are the ones on Lyll; if we're ever in that end of the galaxy I'll have to ask RG-32 for the chance to see them for myself). Maybe that girl even has a boyfriend—a real one, not like mine—who's trying to become a doctor but still finds the time for a bit of plotting against the government on the side. I wish them every happiness, and perhaps someday the freedom that I'll never experience. I expect I'll stay aboard RG-32 until it's made obsolete or until I'm caught, and these days I fear the latter is more likely. RG-32 has one of the lower success rates in the fleet, and eventually one of those computers that are running the central government is going to run the numbers enough times to realize that it's not just a statistical anomaly. But I'll take my time while I've got it. 

"There you go," I say. "Brand new coupling, all ready to go. Just need to oil it and then we'll move on to A-7. What's for dinner today, have you decided yet?"

"Formulated red meat with spinach and tomatoes," it says. "You need more iron this week. I had intended to serve it with garlic butter, but perhaps you would prefer a different sauce."

"That sounds fine," I say. "I'm sure it will be delicious as always. If you don't mind, I'll check over the next three compartments before I take a break for dinner."

"That is very acceptable," RG-32 says. "You are very devoted to me, Sofi. I find that very acceptable and even pleasant."

"I find it acceptable and pleasant too," I say, head deep inside A-6 where I know it can't see my expression, and there's enough oil dripping from overhead that any tears will go unseen. "I'd like to stay with you always."

"Ander might get jealous," RG-32 says.

"I'm sure he won't mind," I say. "I'm doing good work here." I rub a hand along the side of my face, and the oil there smears. "We do good work together, you and I."

"Yes, we do," says RG-32. "I, as well, would like you to stay with me always."

"Then I will," I say. I don't know how long that will be, but I hope it will be a while yet.

**Author's Note:**

> Some more info about Sofi's cipher, for those interested. It's frankly quite a bit for her to do all in her head, but then she's had a lot of practice.
> 
> The message is first shifted in a simple Caesar cipher, for which the form of address indicates the number of letters shifted. The four letters in "dear" indicate that MYRTHRAIS 2PT8 DAYS becomes QCVXLVEMW FTXL HECW. Each letter is then encrypted as two words, followed by one plain/filler word. Each sentence only has five letters encrypted in it (for a total of fifteen words), and any further words in the sentence are not part of the message.
> 
> Beethoven's 32 piano sonatas are assigned the letters A-Z, with the final six doubling up on A-F. (Sofi is careful not to use those last few when the risk of ambiguity is too great. But there are no planets called Mbrthrais, so she's fine to use sonata no. 32 to encode the Y.) 
> 
> The letters of the alphabet are arranged modulus 7 (thus AHOV, BIPW, CJQX, DKRY, ELSZ, FMT, GNU). The first set (AHOV) is associated with the sonatas in any key beginning with A (2 sonatas each in A major and A♭ major), the next set with sonatas in keys beginning with B (2 in B♭ major), the CJQX set with sonatas in keys beginning with C (2 in C major, 3 in C minor, and 1 in C♯ minor), etc. The first word of the encryption of any letter begins with the letter that represents one of the sonatas in the associated key. (For example, D, K, R, or Y would be represented with a word beginning with G, O, or Q, because the D major and D minor sonatas are nos. 7, 15, & 17.)
> 
> Since the first word of the encryption is the same for each set of three or four letters, the second word of the encryption narrows down which letter it is. For the sets of four letters, the second word begins with one of the letters ABCDEF if it's encrypting the first letter in the set, GHIJKL if it's the second, MNOPQR if it's the third, and STUVWXYZ if it's the fourth. (Z and X are the least common first letters of words in English, hence the uneven division.) For sets of three letters, the second word begins with ABCDEFGH, IJKLMNOP, or QRSTUVWXYZ.
> 
> Thus, the first three letters of Sofi's message, MYR, which became QCV with the 4-letter shift, are encoded as any letter out of [CUEHNF', MNOPQR] [CUEHNF', ABCDEF] [LBB'E', STUVWXYZ]. Sofi chose E,N,F,A,L,W, which with filler words added in becomes "Every Night, whether Falling Asleep or Lying Waking for..."
> 
> Yes, it's a bit overcomplicated. But it uses a small enough key that it can be memorized (though it would take a lot of practice to get to that point; I certainly needed pencil and paper myself). And it's flexible enough to produce a message that doesn't sound completely stilted. Sofi may come across as a bit bland, but at least she doesn't come across as a definite spy.
> 
> It's definitely not perfect. (I believe frequency analysis could still find some ways to attack the cipher, though as long as Sofi's messages remain brief there may not be enough there for the computers to work with). But after thinking about the question of "How do you spy on a computer that can see everything you're doing and analyze your messages six ways from Sunday?" and trying to think about whether a human could find any advantage at all in a game that's so obviously on the computer's turf as encryption is, this is what I came up with. Concrit welcome (including 'hey there's this really obvious exploit that you missed' though I really really hope there aren't any holes that big in it)!


End file.
